One of the scribes was taken tonight.

One of the seers, one of our own.

One of the prophets will write no more lines

in radical rhymes

nor preach them to people like us.

He struggled against his emptying days,

though yearned for contentment and calm.

Thought he had lost that angry young man,

but McGarrigle – words never die;

they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.

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